by Maryse Conde
True or false, who can say?
-
WHEN BABAKAR FELL silent, the curve of the sky began to turn light gray. You sensed that the sun was about to make a blazing entrance, and in the garden the humming birds were hovering around the pistils of the flowers. He had talked for hours. Movar clasped Babakar’s hand, pressed it softly against his cheek, then caressed it with his lips. Thereupon, as if ashamed of such an intimate gesture, the two men went to their separate bedrooms.
The period of Lent finally settled in, as hot and dry as the rainy season had been wet and damp. Crafty little devils were selling demijohns of spring water, in actual fact water from the few rivers that hadn’t dried up. The children and old people who drank the water died from severe colic. It was in this fever-pitch atmosphere that strange rumors began to circulate. The modest grave at La Trenelle Cemetery, where the remains of the “illegal Haitian girl” had been buried, was said to have been vandalized and her body dragged through the mud and half eaten by unidentified wild beasts. It was rumored her head had been found on one side and her arms and legs on the other. Others claimed that, on the contrary, her entire body had vanished and the grave was empty like Lazarus’s, who had emerged from the dead. After the mysterious fire that had burned the shack she shared with Movar, the situation was becoming increasingly disturbing. Who in fact was this “illegal Haitian girl”?
When he got wind of the rumors, Babakar paid no attention. But when he returned home he found Movar in a state of panic. Movar explained as best he could, mixing Creole and French since Babakar had enrolled him in literacy classes at the town hall, that once Reinette’s body had been removed, he would be unable to find her even if he tried. To a logical mind, such words might have seemed like unintelligible rambling. But Babakar didn’t have a logical mind, thank goodness!
“Find her?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Haiti,” Movar said in Creole, in a serious tone of voice, “is like no other place. The living and the dead remain together. Moreover, the dead are buried next to the living. You see people in the street walking and talking. In actual fact, they’ve been dead a long time.”
“So how do you tell the difference?” Babakar asked jokingly.
“You can’t!” Movar answered in all seriousness. “Only the experts manage to do so. If you lose a loved one, they’ll investigate and one day they’ll point to someone saying, ‘I’ve found her. That’s her!’ And you take her back home.”
With these words, his face brightened up, and Babakar even began to dream. And what if it were true? If you could find all those you had lost: Thécla, Azélia, his grandmother, and Hugo Moreno. Alas, he knew full well that Death is a frontier that nobody crosses twice.
In order to calm down his friend, Babakar consented to pay a visit to the church at La Trenelle where the Reverend Tamsir accepted visits between confessions. The priest was a newcomer from the Congo who still had memories of the atrocities he had witnessed in his country. Babakar refused to let the war dominate the conversation, as was generally the case, and focused on Reinette. How much credit could he give to the rumors circulating about her?
“They’re all true!” the priest thundered. “It was me who alerted the gendarmes. The coffin was empty.”
“Li té vid!” Movar groaned.
“Empty!”
Movar wept all the way home while Babakar sought in vain a way to console him. It was beyond his understanding. He had taken the Catholic expression of “eternal rest” literally and believed that this gloomy world of ours was the sole place for violence and conflict. Was he mistaken? Did we need to prepare for further struggles in the afterlife? Would we never know peace?
A few months later, nobody was surprised to learn that Dr. Traoré had put the key under the doormat and quietly slipped away, just like that. As quietly as he had come. Where had he gone? To Port-au-Prince of course, where he had shady dealings with the Haitians.
The real reasons for his departure deserve closer examination.
First of all, Babakar hadn’t a penny to his name. There were no legal proceedings against him, and Aristophane and his clique had done nothing but blow hot air. Yet his patients had melted away like candles in the wind. His contract with the Child Protection Center had not been renewed. But like Caesar’s wife, a doctor must be above suspicion.
Then his relationship with Movar was a subject of intrigue and outrage. It was whispered that if he had set up house with the companion of the “illegal Haitian girl” it probably meant that they must have had an unsavory ménage à trois in the past. The two accomplices had shared Reinette and were now finding comfort with each other. For a long time hidden under the Creole name of zamis, homosexuality was raising its ugly head. Last year there was even a gay pride, which attracted more people than the procession at Mardi Gras or the closing ceremony on Ash Wednesday. A contingent of auntie men from Martinique, led by the docker Doudou Gros Sirop, had traveled from Fort-de-France in support of the locals.
But the real reason for his departure was Anaïs. Babakar could no longer put up with the way she was being treated and came to the conclusion she would never be anything else but the diabolical offspring of a trio of delinquents. She only needed to take the air on the village square in her chromium-plated baby carriage pushed by Chloé Ranguin for all eyes to be fixed on her. The most brazen of mothers would come over and ask in a perfidious tone of voice, “Shouldn’t she be starting to say a few words at her age? Who does she call ‘Papa’? It must be confusing for a child to have parents of the same sex!”
Furthermore, although Movar had left off blaming him, Babakar was increasingly ashamed of the way he had grabbed the child, trampling the sacred ties of blood. It was because of this theft, this unforgivable rape, that the baby girl, despite her budding beauty, remained sad, seldom smiling and conscious of everything she had been despoiled of.
Thécla did not approve of her son’s decision. Hardly had he recovered from his previous trials and tribulations than he was diving headfirst into the hellhole of Haiti. Even the most optimistic journalists had a low opinion of this country.
“Why are you making Haiti into such a bogeyman?” he laughed. “The real dangers lie elsewhere. The twin towers that collapsed in New York, the fire that ravaged the Taj Hotel and trapped the tourists in Mumbai, and the recent earthquake in Sri Lanka.”
“Haiti is all that lumped together,” Thécla claimed.
Such assumptions appeared ridiculous. At that very moment the first rift in the relations between Thécla and Babakar occurred. He didn’t hold it against her for not liking Azélia. After all, it’s in the nature of mothers-in-law not to like their daughters-in-law. But he held it against her for not commiserating with his anguish and feelings regarding Anaïs. He suddenly put an end to the conversation: “I’ve bought the tickets. Whatever you say, I’ve made up my mind. We’re leaving.”
-
FOR ONCE, THE local television station, the subject of much criticism, had done a good job and the pictures it reported were a clear warning for Babakar. The road that leads from the airport in Port-au-Prince to the center of town, a straight, flat, narrow road, apparently unremarkable, is in fact terribly dangerous. Those who can afford it have themselves escorted by heavily armed guards from the moment they leave the plane. There are countless kidnappings, such as those of the few remaining businessmen who have not yet fled to the US, or the even fewer tourists, kidnappings of members of NGOs, even religious members and everyday citizens released for a handful of dollars. Babakar looked around him in surprise, stupefied by the impression it was all so familiar. Port-au-Prince, stuck in the middle of the Caribbean, miles and oceans away from Africa, looked like Eburnéa: its towns wounded, suffering and sick. Who would be able to describe the agony they have endured?
But Port-au-Prince was in a greater state of decomposition than Eburnéa. Nevertheless, it p
ossesses a stunning vitality, like that of a condemned man clinging desperately to life. Traffic runs along a strip of tarmac full of potholes, littered with garbage, and lined with boarded-up buildings themselves riddled with bullet holes. Trucks and four-wheel drives filled with heavily armed men drive past at full speed. The inevitable stray dogs with their hindquarters upended limp from one pile of refuse to another. And Babakar was confused: Where exactly was he? Was it yesterday or today? Had he traveled all those kilometers only to return to square one? If it hadn’t been for this baby, this newborn asleep clinging to his chest, he could easily have forgotten what he had gone through.
Fouad had come to pick them up in a van painted with green lettering under two palm trees: Hotel-Restaurant, The Cedars of Lebanon: Sophisticated Mediterranean cuisine. He was a giant, almost two meters tall, a redhead with blue eyes and a face riddled with freckles, nothing like the usual cliché of an Arab. Despite his preposterous vehicle, he had connections apparently, since the police and customs formalities were expedited in next to no time.
While driving with a fidgety hand, Fouad chatted with Movar, giving him the latest news. Haiti was relatively calm for the moment despite its sudden outbursts of violence. He interrupted himself to ask how the journey had gone. Uneventful, apart from the impression of being taken for an odd couple. It’s not every day you see two men traveling alone with a baby. Babies are women’s business. Consequently, the flight attendants on Air Caraïbes had competed to fuss over the baby with cries of admiration.
“My God, she’s so cute!”
“What’s her name?”
“Shall I heat up her bottle?”
“Would she like a little water? Some Évian?”
“An apple juice?”
Babakar found it irritating but Movar was obviously happy to be the center of attention, especially as he was not used to this kind of treatment.
They reached the town center, which was swarming with men, women, and children, all wearing miserable rags, and bustling with vehicles that seemed about to conk out, ready for the scrap heap, colorful minibus tap taps, painted with passionate pleas to Heaven amidst the din of their engines—O God, speak to us, Trust in God, Hail Mary, full of grace—and loaded with passengers seated on the roof. Suddenly Fouad braked frenziedly with both feet.
“It’s here!” he announced. And added by way of an explanation, “The car never obeys me. I always have to manhandle it.”
The Hotel-Restaurant, The Cedars of Lebanon, was a modest edifice seriously in need of a coat of paint. The one-story, roof-tiled central building was surrounded by a semicircle of four thatched pavilions. These housed the deluxe bedrooms, once air-conditioned. A tiny swimming pool opened its blue eye a good distance from the beds of poinsettias and dahlias in a well-kept little garden. Two young girls, alas rigged out in awful striped American dungarees, emerged at reception. They threw themselves into the arms of Movar, who embraced them warmly. They were most likely his young sisters, about whom he often said how much he missed them. They walked over to Anaïs with a smile, kissed her, and asked if she was his little girl.
“Sé yon tifi?”
“In French please!” Foaud ordered them, waving his bunch of keys.
Instead of obeying him, they dragged Movar into the central building.
“What was the point of paying a fortune for their education?” Fouad continued. “Myriam, the older one, studied at a catering school and helps me in the kitchen. Jahira works for an advertising company. When they’re together, they don’t speak a word of French.”
Babakar hadn’t a clue on the subject of French versus Creole, which was a topic of contention on every island, and as such he didn’t say a word. He noticed how anxious Fouad looked. What was he suffering from?
The room Fouad showed Babakar into was spotlessly clean and quite comfortable, despite being rudimentarily furnished. Although the windows were wide open, it was stiflingly hot. Babakar had never experienced such heat, even though he was born in the dunes of Tiguiri on the edge of the Sahel. Fouad, who was watching him with an increasingly worried look, explained.
“We only have electricity three days a week. It’s a nuisance for the baby.”
At that moment Anaïs, who had been asleep since the airport, woke up as if it was the temperature that bothered her.
“Do you need me to help you?” Fouad asked.
Babakar shook his head, took out from a bag some powdered milk and a thermos and skillfully prepared a baby’s bottle. The only thing a man can’t do is breastfeed. While he was finishing changing Anaïs, Movar came in and suggested they walk over to the rue du Travail.
Rue du Travail?
Babakar had completely forgotten. That was where Reinette’s sister and nurse were supposed to live. Now that he had arrived at his destination, he no longer wanted to meet this family. Did he really think he could hand them back his beloved Anaïs? A ridiculous idea! Fouad yelled at them from the lobby: “It’s not wise to walk in the streets!”
Babakar assured Fouad that it was no problem for him and he had seen worse. He followed Movar, who was striding along with Anaïs on his shoulder. He couldn’t help noticing how Movar had changed since the return to his native land—ever since they had come out of the airport, to be exact. Transformed, he now held himself more erect and appeared less frail, more confident, having lost that scared look.
At present the daylight began to fade and the sky was streaked with long strands of red. Built along its bay, Port-au-Prince enjoys an exceptional setting. One can imagine what it must have been like years earlier, at the height of its splendor, like imagining what an eighty-year-old ravaged by illness must have looked like in her youth. Since then, too much blood—the blood of the innocent, the blood of the guilty, the blood of the victims, and the blood of the torturers, as well as that of the innocent turned guilty, the victims turned torturers—had reddened the soil. At the crossroads, too many bonfires had been lit to celebrate conflicting victories, and the rays of Brother Sun in person could make neither head nor tail of all this mess.
The rue du Travail used to be one of the smart neighborhoods, as can be seen in the numerous gingerbread houses, now abandoned, their doors and windows boarded up with wooden planks or sheets of corrugated iron. The neighborhood was shrouded in silence, which contrasted with the commotion of the Delmas district. As they got closer to number 100, Anaïs, who had kept quiet up till then, eyeing the surroundings, began to scream with all her might. It was as if something had woken inside her and she judiciously recognized the place. What memories, unbeknownst to anyone, were locked in her mind’s eye? Movar kissed her and whispered in her ear. To no avail. She screamed even louder and struggled violently.
“Li pa vé rantré!” Movar said. “Fok ou alé tou sel.”
Babakar hesitated, then on his own pushed open the gate bristling with No Trespassing notices. The huge garden was overrun with tall grass and prickly shrubs due to lack of maintenance. An enormous pandanus sagged in one corner while torch cacti grew just about everywhere else. A profusion of agaves and bauhinias had resisted the lack of upkeep. Although it was dilapidated, the house remained a fine example of traditional architecture. Babakar climbed up the flight of steps that led to the wraparound veranda. Making his way round he noticed that two of the ground-floor doors were wide open and he walked inside.
Everything had obviously been abandoned for a long time. A terrible musty smell grabbed you by the throat upon entry. Babakar’s eyes could make out in the dark a vast room which must have been the living room, now vandalized, the rugs removed and the paintings ripped off the walls. A piano, however, remained absurdly intact, its black lacquer barely smothered in dust or other stains. Babakar started up the monumental staircase which led to the upper floor, gripped by a strange emotion. It was in this bourgeois setting that Reinette, the “illegal Haitian girl,” had grown up. Did she suspect for one
moment that some day she would leave her island home and live as a pariah under other climes? What kind of child had she been? What kind of teenager? Had she slid down this banister? Disconcerted, he retraced his steps and went out into the garden.
Movar was sitting on the sidewalk cradling Anaïs. A few steps away a man was standing at the door of his store, Aux Quatre Saisons, watching them.
“The house is empty! There’s no one there,” Babakar said to Movar. Then he marched over to the stranger.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m looking for your former neighbor, Estrella Ovide. You wouldn’t know where she’s gone?”
“Estrella Ovide?” he frowned. “You mean one of the young girls who stayed behind with their nurse? It’s been ages since I last saw them, all three of them. You should cover that child’s head,” he added sententiously. “Soon dusk will fall and after such a hot day she’ll catch cold.”
Thereupon, the man hurried back inside his store like a crab scuttling home to his hole. Babakar was not at all intimidated and followed him in.
“Didn’t you notify the police of their disappearance?”
“The police?”
The man seemed astounded and, turning to Movar, who too had come in, asked where were they from.
“Moun ki peyi I ye?”
The store was practically empty. A few bottles of Dasani mineral water and Coca-Cola were left on the shelves. Babakar walked over to the man and asked in an urgent tone of voice, “Can you please help me? I’ve come a long way with the express purpose of looking for her. Haven’t you the slightest idea where Estrella Ovide could be?”
